


Parks are for Liars

by marcicat



Category: White Collar
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-31
Updated: 2010-08-31
Packaged: 2017-12-07 00:15:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/741855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marcicat/pseuds/marcicat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coda to 2.02 (the one with the political campaign).</p><p>  <i>"Who's Timmy Nolan?"</i></p><p>  <i>"I have no idea.  You guys have to make him up."</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Parks are for Liars

It was ridiculous to assume, to make any kind of assumptions about Neal.  He lied like it was breathing, like reality was a construct of his own making.  Then again, he did sign his work.

He did a background check on the Senator -- called in a few favors with the lead team and managed to confirm a few things.  First, Jennings never knew anyone named Timmy Nolan -- the name had been Neal's suggestion.  Second, even when the man was set to face a slew of criminal charges, he was one arrogant bastard.  

A google search turned up a restaurant in California.  Timmy Nolan's Tavern & Grill, 10111 Riverside Drive, Toluca Lake, CA.  It had a website and everything, remarkable only in its sheer unremarkableness.  He called El anyway.  "I'm sure it's nothing," he said.  

"Oh honey," she said.  "Do you want me to go check it out?  It's not that far from where I'm staying."  And if she laughed at him when he emailed a list of questions, well, he'd fallen in love with that laugh.

So he just said, "I love you," and, "Thank you," and she sent him a text of nothing but x's and o's.

Mozzie said he didn't know anything, but he was always a tough read.  It was entirely possible he was still upset about Jennings turning out to be yet another crooked politician.  Neal still seemed completely chuffed about the park, though, and Peter's itchy feeling that he was missing something just got stronger.

Timmy (Timothy, Tim) Nolan had never been a known alias for Neal Caffrey.  Then again, no one had ever really been sure that the name Neal Caffrey wasn't an alias.  He'd popped up on the FBI's radar already a fully fledged mastermind art thief, and Peter -- for all his painstaking research and observation -- had never penetrated back even as far as his teenage years, let alone his childhood.  

He felt bad hiding yet another secret investigation from Neal, but it was so ridiculous he wasn't sure how to bring it up.  'Hey, Neal, just thought you should know I didn't believe you when you said Timmy Nolan was a made-up name, so I've been trying to figure out who he really is.  No offense.'  There was nowhere in their lives where that was a conversation that flowed off the tongue.  

So it came as somewhat of a surprise to him when they were standing in line at the corner deli (the coffee was overpriced but the sandwiches were outstanding) and he turned to Neal and said, "I'm investigating Timmy Nolan."  

Neal's expression was priceless.  "What?" he managed.  "Peter, why?  He's not a real person."

"I don't know," Peter said honestly.  "It keeps me out of trouble while Elizabeth's away."

"You know," Neal said lightly.  "Your obsession with me is probably unhealthy."  

It wasn't an accusation, and Peter hid a smile.  "You can't beat the sandwiches, though, right?"

Neal grinned back.  "I think it's the mustard they use.  Gives it that little extra kick."

Peter was half-convinced that Neal was helping.  Because the Neal Caffrey he had boxes of files about (that the department had boxes of files about) had absolutely graduated from high school.  Then college, then grad school -- with honors.  But Neal had stood there and said he didn't lie to Peter, and then said he'd never finished high school.

There was no way to run all the data he'd need to run to find a birth certificate.  Not without at least narrowing it down to a specific year.  Especially if Nolan was a middle name and not a last name.  Not that he'd thought about it, because that would be crazy and stalker-ish and there was absolutely no reason for him to do it.  

By the time Elizabeth called, Peter was almost but not quite considering a state by state search.  "You're not going to believe this," she said.  "I think Neal is Timmy Nolan."

Peter restrained himself from a victory fist-pump.  "Really?" he said.

"I mean, I think he's the owner of the restaurant," Elizabeth clarified.  "That's about all I could get out of the manager, though, and even that was only because I had a picture of Neal in my wallet."

Peter nodded.  "That's great; it’s something, at least.  Wait -- why do you have a picture of Neal in your wallet?"  

Elizabeth just laughed.  "Don't worry; I have one of you too.  And Satchmo."

"Okay."  He let the word draw out.  "I'm glad, I guess.  I'm still confused on the why."

"Lots of reasons.  I'm far from home and like having you close.  Studies show a thief is less likely to clean out your wallet if you have photographs in it.  It comes in handy if I ever have to ask questions about Neal.  It will help someone identify me if I ever wind up with amnesia.  It will help me identify you if there's ever a disaster."

"You're amazing, you know that?"  

"I know.  Now, you want to hear what else I found out?"

***

And then somehow, a simple stakeout turned into a foot chase, and he woke up in a cement room with a screaming headache and Neal tying off a bandage on his own arm with his teeth.  "Is that your tie?" he managed.  

"It's your tie, actually," Neal said.  "Mine's dry clean only."  The snark probably meant things were not completely fubar, although Neal's hesitation before asking, "How do you feel?" certainly increased his wariness.

"Like I have a concussion," he said shortly.  "What happened?"

Neal raised an eyebrow.  Actually, Peter couldn't focus well enough in the dim light to tell if he did or not, but it was a good bet the eyebrow was up.  "Good question.  Something you've been meaning to tell me about Fowler?  Because apparently he's not feeling particularly friendly towards you right now."

"Fowler?  He's here?"

"He was.  About an hour ago.  You've got him to thank for that bump on your head, by the way."

"He's a dirtbag."

"You did shoot him, Peter."

"He had a vest!"  Silence.  "What does he want?"

"Don't know.  He cut the tracker, though, or had one of his goons do it.  I had a bag over my head at the time, so it was hard to tell.  They never monologue like they do in the movies."

"He probably wants the music box," Peter said, before he remembered he absolutely wasn't supposed to talk about that.  "I'm concussed," he said.  "Can we forget I said that?"

"You want an off the record conversation?"  Neal sounded -- not completely furious.  "With me?  You really are concussed.”  There was a pause, like Neal was weighing all the angles.  “Fine -- tell me what you've found out about Timmy Nolan."

Peter wasn't sure that made sense.  "We found the restaurant," he said anyway.

"We?"

"Elizabeth went there.  Did you know she has your picture in her wallet?"

"I bet it came in handy."

"Apparently the manager was very impressed with her story about your romantic love affair."  Peter was pretty sure it was payback for him pulling up an escort site while he'd been talking on the phone with her.  They told each other everything; that still left plenty of room for pigtail pulling.  

"Find anything else?"

"An artist.  He didn't want to speak to me."  His head hurt.  "What happened to your arm?" he asked.

Neal ignored him.  "Did you send El after him too?"

"No.  If the museum hasn't noticed yet that his latest work is a stylized escape route, mapped out on their wall, they deserve to be robbed."

Neal laughed.  "I like him already."

Peter felt like maybe he could sit up.  The attempt left his head spinning and his stomach doing uneasy backflips -- lying down it was, then.  Neal stayed silent the entire time.  "How bad is it?" Peter asked.  "Tell me the truth."

Neal’s pause probably meant he was shrugging.  The fact that Peter couldn’t tell probably wasn’t a good sign.  "The good news is, you hit your head hard enough to lose consciousness, but you're not bleeding.  Much.  I've been shot, but it's a graze.  A few stitches should do me up."

Peter grimaced and braced himself.  "Bad news?"

"There's no way out, even if we were both mobile.  No tracker, no phones, unless you've got one hidden somewhere.  We're stuck waiting for the cavalry on this one."

Peter thought for a minute.  "Hey Neal?"

"Yeah?"

"Next time I ask for the bad news?  Lie."

***

"It's your turn, by the way."

Neal jerked up at the sound of his voice, and Peter felt briefly guilty.  If Neal had managed to doze off, even for a few minutes -- it's not like there was anything better to do.

"My turn for what?" Neal asked.

"Timmy Nolan.  I told you mine -- now it's your turn."

There was a long pause, and then a sigh.  "Fine.  Once upon a time --"

"Neal!"

"What?  That's how all good stories start, Peter, 'once upon a time.'  Do you want me to tell it or not?"

"Fine."

"Fine.  Once upon a time, there was a little boy named Timmy Nolan.  He had a best friend and every day they played together.  In the park.  One day they found a dog -- it was sad and lonely, and Timmy thought he could take it home and make sure it never went hungry again.  Timmy and his friend begged and begged to be able to keep the dog, until their parents agreed.  They all lived happily ever after; the end."

"That's a nice story.  Are you Timmy, or the friend?"  An unwelcome thought occurred to him.  "Or the dog?"

"You have a very skewed perception of my childhood," Neal said.  There was mischief in his voice, but it was also clear he wasn't planning on answering the question.

"Not for lack of trying," Peter said.  He waited a beat.  “Is it true?"

He felt Neal sigh, and wondered when they'd gotten so close together.  "Does it matter, Peter?  You caught me.  It's over."

"It never felt that way, you know.  I never felt like I caught you.  You just got tired of running."

"I chose this."  There was a moment where Peter thought he was going to add, "I chose you," but he thought that was probably the concussion talking.

“No one’s expecting us to check in until morning,” Peter said.

Neal made a sound that might have been ‘yes, I know’ or possibly ‘I know something you don’t know.’  They were harder to differentiate when he was lying down, somehow.

“Neal...”

“It’s just, Elizabeth was going to text me.  She’s planning your anniversary party.”

Peter blinked.  “So, because my wife was going to text you in the middle of the night -- while you were supposed to be working a case -- we might get rescued early?”

“Are you feeling better?  Because that sentence was almost completely coherent, though not entirely grammatically correct.”

He was trying to think of a comeback when the sounds of a SWAT team reached them.  He’d never been on the rescue-ee side of a SWAT search before.  They weren’t subtle.  All heavy boots and shouting and laser-sight beams -- his headache reached new heights before he heard Neal snap, “He has a concussion; get that flashlight out of his face.”

And then there was an ambulance, and Neal riding beside him with an emergency blanket draped over his shoulders (for the record, not even Neal could pull off an emergency blanket with panache) and a worried expression.  

“I’m fine,” Peter said.

“Elizabeth told me you’d say that,” Neal said, waving a borrowed phone.  “I told her she should pick you up a new tie on her way back.”

There were no moments of peace in an ambulance ride, no quiet seconds to gather your thoughts.  Still, Peter was nearly positive he’d left something unsaid back in the basement, in between Neal’s story and the SWAT team.  “Hey Neal?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.”


End file.
